


You still have good in you Tom

by Eye_of_Purgatory



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Horcruxes, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-06-30 12:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19853515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eye_of_Purgatory/pseuds/Eye_of_Purgatory
Summary: “I am not,” the teen shutters, “Tom”, he spits out the name like a sour candy. He angrily looks back up at the man, “I killed Tom last year. And, I just killed Tom again,” he gestures to the corpse of his own father, “I am naught but a riddle that I have yet to solve.”





	1. The Diary

The blood drips drips drips, and Tom watches. Myrtle’s hand twitches with the last remnants of life leaving her. The basilisk has fled in fear, leaving the only breathing in the room of a hyperventilating teen. The teen’s eyes are blood red, and he shakes with the only emotion.

_ This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not yet. _

“Tom you don’t have to do this” A voice comes from the side of the room, and looking up the teen sees a man with eyes as green as his are red. The man itches closer, but the teen brandishes his wand.

“You aren’t from the school.” He says smoothly. Though alarm bells ring in his brain, louder than the thrill that has echoed out into darkness. His hand reaches for his back pocket, he feels the ingredients still there. He must do this soon or not at all.

“Tom. I know what you did, you don't have to do this. It’s ok. We can forget this ever happened.” The man holds his hand as a sign of surrender, but tries to move closer. 

“Who are you?” The teen demands, gripping his wand so hard the knuckles turn white. The teen straightens as if to impress a member of high society, and directs his full gaze on the man on the other side of the cold damp bathroom. The man holds his gaze.

“You can stop here Tom! Don’t kill any more people, you can move on from this. I know you can Tom.” The man looks soulfully into the eyes of the snake, willing with all of his immense caring to stop this.

“Why do you act like you know me? Who are you.” The teen says this calm, but the question turns to a demand, the objects around both of them rattle with magical stress, glowing a slight red.

“You can be great tom! You have the potential to be  _ anyone _ you want! Why be this person, this version of you. Why waste your potential on this Tom? Why?” The man tears up at his own words, creating a show that the red eyes one views as fake. As a burning manipulation. As a lie.

“I am not wasting anything.” The teen growls, “I asked you a question though.” He directs a glare and raises his wand even more, “Who.” He blasts the man, pushing him back like a strong wave, “ ARE.” He is pushed back again, but several more meters as he is almost blown off of his feet. “YOU!” The man is thrown to the back wall, groaning in pain.

He groans in pain, standing up and brushing the dirt off of his robes, “I-” he hesitates for a moment, “I am a man who thinks you can do better Tom. Horcruxes are not worth it, please don't do this. Just step away Tom, just step away and you can leave all this behind. You go back to be a norma-”

The teen’s eyes widen and then flinch when the man hits the last word, his mouth twitches like an animal ready to bite, like somebody on the verge of destruction. “I’ll never be normal! I will never again be a nasty, dirty, mortal! I am to rule, I am superior then all these lesser beings! I was never normal, taunted mercilessly for being less, for being odd. For being Tom, that kid at the orphanage who nobody deemed it a good idea to ask what happened to Billy’s rabbit. Just send me back for another exorcism. THAT’LL HELP RIGHT! But not again, never again. I will show them what humanity is supposed to be. The dirt under my feet.” The teen steps back towards the corpse of the pathetic girl, taking something out of the pocket of his robes. A bottle full of dark black liquid, and a small black leather book. He flashes a feral and insane grin at the man.

“T-” The bottle and diary drop, causing a tornado of burning red magic. The man tries to step forward towards the tornado to stop it, but it ends before the blink of an eye. Every object stirred up by the wild magic stills in the air, hovering in perfect place. The man watches in horror as the teen seems to fall in slow motion, body pale and weak.

The man rushes to catch the quickly falling teen, bracing him from the impact of the cold marble floor, coated in the blood of his first victim. The teen is utterly relaxed, so horribly similar to a dead body, but with a faint rhythmic pulse echoing throughout his thin frame. The man can see the two pieces of soul fluttering like trapped butterflies, straining to reach each other with all of their energy. The man holds the fainted teen as he violently coughs up blood upon blood upon blood, each breath interlaced with pain greater than that of pouring the burning of plasma from the hottest sun. Like this, muses the man, he looks less human and more like a cast out god, defeated and dying, trying viciously to hold onto any last shred of life.

“Tom what have you done” The man murmurs into the air above his head, embracing him as he shakes with tremors. The teen’s face scrunches with pain.

He opens his eyes slightly and squints at the man, “I did what I had to”, he spits out like a curse, trying to shy away from the man but far too weak after the violent magic tearing him apart.

The man puts a hand to the face of the teen, “Oh Tom,” he says with regret and sorrow drawn out, causing the words to drip with despair like an ice cube melting under the light of a hot sun, “ you never had to do this.  _ Nobody Ever _ has to do this.”

The teen finally manages to push away, hauling is torso upright into a sitting position, breathing heavy, but quickly improving. His magic wraps around him like a shield, “So when somebody dies it is a tragedy, but when I pursue life it makes it worse? What do you want? Me to die, or not!”

The teen coughs violently, so the man puts a hand on his back to steady him, “It’s not that Tom. We have a life, we live in this beautiful gift, and then we die. We all die in the end Tom, just as fate demands. Fate always wins in the end. And even so.” He looks directly into Tom’s eyes, Tom notices his eyes started to glow and tear, “An infinite life would be a horrifying experience worse than the greatest of tortues. Humans aren’t meant to live that long, your mind would break.”

“I can take it.” Tom tries desperately to stand up, and in the end the man helps him instead of letting his suffering prolong. As soon as he is standing he pushes away from the man, almost falling as he does, but righting himself by leaning on the sink.  _ The _ sink. The man looks pleadingly at him, but he just glares at him with an intensity that could kill.

“Tom, listen to me.” The man stresses his words with an immense power, drawing Tom’s eyes and curiosity, but also his anger at being addressed as if he could be commanded. “It is not too late to turn back,” his eyes look with an anger, “you can rejoin your soul, and it will be like all this never happened. Just regre-”

“ _ Avada Kedavra _ ” A green light engulfs them both, brighter than a bomb’s explosion, coating everything sickly green. The man is thrown back on the ground like a beanbag. He looks almost to be sleeping, but his heart has stopped and his skin is sickly pale. A single tear is frozen on his face. Tom takes a moment to breathe, magic screaming in pain from using the curse.

“Pathetic. I didn’t even get to learn your name, what a shame.” Tom mutters breathlessly to the corpse on the ground, as if it can hear his every word. 

He turns back around to the sink he was leaning on, staring directly into the eyes of the small engraved snake. His voice turns into a rough breathy hiss,  _ :Open: _

The sink widens to a giant metal tube, fresh blood coating the walls from a recent kill, causing a horrible and rotten stench. Without a second look the teen kicks the body of his attempted savior into the pit. He watches it slide down into the blackness of the abyss like so many of the animal carcasses he has sent before, though this one seems far more real.

The teen walks away from both his crimes exhausted, and with a grin on his face.


	2. The Ring

A teen sits on the floor of a manor, staring in morbid fascination at a set of corpses. A stolen wand rests in his hand, while the true wand sits far away in a hogwarts trunk. There is no blood this time, though the teen sadistically wishes there was, and a lot of it to boot. He grins at the look of fear on their faces, desiring to take the heads back with him so he can watch their terrored expressions for the rest of time.

He runs his hand over the face of a father he never knew, noting how quickly the heat rushes out of their bodies in this cold harsh winter. He wishes that it was still warm, that his father was still struggling and screaming. That he could still feel the pain, and regret leaving his son to the mercy of a broken world.

He stares at the face, marveling at the beauty. His father is like an older clone of himself. His hair is midnight black even with age, but there is a grey streak that runs through it that compliments his features well. His cheekbones are sharp and defined, not as good as his own of course, but close. The main difference between the two is their personalities, where after he abandoned Merope the father abandoned his masks and political plays, not bothering to hide his distaste for others. He is like an aged prince, just waiting for an aged Princess to join him in his journey, but his face holds an expression of distaste.

The teen lets his hands run over the face, noting where the rises and falls differ from the ones on his own face, noting every single imperfection. He feels the silkiness of the hair, thinner and softer than his own, nurtured with years of careful care. He takes his time staring into the eyes, seeing the humanity that still exists inside even post death. He sees how this Tom Riddle differs so heavily from him in looks, where this man looks mortal, he looks like a  _ god _ . His own red eyes show how he differs from dirty humans. 

Upon remembrance that his father is a dirty child abandoning muggle he rips his hand away like one would from a hot surface. He wipes his hand on his robes until deemed suitably cleaned, while looking distastefully at the muggles in front of him. His red eyes narrow as he sees the heartbroken look on his grandmothers face, which he believes as one obviously faked. 

He straightens his back, letting himself relax before the ritual he knows will be so incredibly painful. A small creak in the floor catches his attention, bringing his eyes straight to glowing green ones. The eyes of this man are as soft as the one he killed, and they are mirror images. He flinches, and readies almost into a battle stance before stopping himself. He forces himself to stand straight and calm despite the panic bells ringing in his head like clockwork. For some reason the man he has killed has come back to him, and he refuses to act rashly as he did last time, he has aged and matured in his eyes after all. He can feel the lack of fear as a result of only half his soul remaining, but ignores it.

The man looks sadly at the corpses in front of the teen, but the teen just crosses his arms and stares at the man. “To-”

“I am not,” the teen shutters, “Tom”, he spits out the name like a sour candy. He angrily looks back up at the man, “I killed Tom last year. And, I just killed Tom again,” he gestures to the corpse of his own father, “I am naught but a riddle that I have yet to solve.”

“I will call you Riddle if you wish I do. Why did you kill your grandparents, you need only one for a horcrux.” The man steps forward, and upon seeing Riddle take no hostile action, leaned down to close the eyes of Tom Riddle Sr., Riddle thinks he can hear a faint sorry emit from the man’s lips, but he cannot be sure. The man rises, looking deep into Riddle’s soul, so much he practically wants to cover himself up, but he knows it is irrational.

“They saw me enter, they had no choice. ”

“You could have stunned them.”

“Why waste time? It would have taken longer, implant false memories or wipe their own.”

“Why create when it is so much easier to destroy?”They stand in silence for a moment, before Riddle realizes he cannot waste any more time if he wants to make a horcrux now.

“Who are you?” Riddle asks, voice free of malice, and calmer than the moon. He rubs the ring on his finger, feeling it move strangely, unlike anything he has ever felt. It jiggles and burns on his ring finger, straining to reach something. The unknown man looks at the ring with glowing eyes, and it stops. Riddle glares at the man, who just looks back with an unreadable expression.

“I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, am a man who believes you have the potential to be great. You have so much potential, but you dampen it every single time you kill somebody.”

“One must not be good to be great, I will be great. Terrible, but great.” He smiles softly into the ceiling, barely missing a slight flinch from the man in front of him.

The man who stands before the riddle looks distressed, and mutters in a horribly pathetic and pitiful tone while looking directly into the eyes of Riddle’s grandmother, “I know Tom. I know." he looks back up, “You don’t have to be feared to rule, you don’t have to kill to be feared. Why take the world by force when you can take it through your mind.”

Riddle growls, “You sound like Dumbledore,” then he smirks, “But Dumbledore knew from the start that I was evil, why don’t you?” he asks this mockingly, with an exaggerated look of hurt dripping from his fake doll like features.

The man seems to stop, looking at the floor and refusing to say anything for the time being, though Tom minds not. He uses the man’s inattention to look at him properly for the first time, noting how the man seems only a year or two older than himself. He is shorter than himself, roughly by 10 centimeters, but probably slightly more than that. The man has wild black hair that frames his face well, and a lightning bolt scar on his forehead. His body is lean, bit covered by a thick black cloak similar to that of a dementor, Riddle wonders why he never noticed the strange attire, but the thought soon slips from his mind. Riddle decides that the man is attractive, with a mystery cloaking him that only increases his interest.

The man looks up, and when Riddle bothers not remove his gaze the man blushes faintly but quickly ignores it, “Dumbledore was wrong, you are not evil, you have the potential to be anyone you want.”

Riddle takes a step closer, and maintains a predatory gaze latched onto the mysterious man in front of him, but the man braves his gaze and stays still. Riddle lowers his volume to a point at which he knows the man will only barely hear, “But, what if I want to be evil,  _ Pure _ evil, what then?”

“Then you will fail Riddle.” Riddle’s stern gaze with a small hint of lust intensifies, but the man stares back with a hurt look of even stronger intensity, “Because that ability to change wrapped up in every human being, a little glimmer of good that shines throughout all of us. An you, Riddle, are still human. You are human Riddle, no matter what you do, you are a human, and humans aren't pure evil. Even if you could, you would rule over humans, humans that would reject a ruler of pure evil.”

Riddle takes a step closer, and squints at the man, “Then how, human, did you survive that helpful little curse I threw at you?” He asks this in feigned innocence, but one as innocent as he feigns to be would see the barely hidden rage interlaced between those words. He mutters a soft demand, “Tell me, and I won’t have to make any more Horcruxes”

The man notes how the only thing separating them right now is the corpse of Riddle’s father in front of their feet, he can feel the angry magic coiled like a cat to pounce curled within Riddle’s form. He breathes in intensely, then grits his teeth, “You missed.”

“Did I?” Riddle questions with rage and disbelief even less hidden as he steps forward to the mysterious man, embracing him like a loved one, the man doesn’t move a single muscle. Riddle presses his mouth to the wild black hair in the same way a mother might kiss her children goodbye, “Tell me why you are really here.”

“To stop you” 

“Shame” Riddle mutters into his hair, nothing about the tone of his voice giving anything off about his mood, but before the word can even echo back from the tall ceiling, his stolen wand is pressed to the back of the man’s neck.

“ _ Avada Kedavra _ ” A poison green light washes over the pair, and the man goes completely limp. Riddle stays till, holding the man in the arms while relishing the weight as heat slowly fades from the dead body. He gently lays to body on the ground, taking a moment to admire the man’s face, still pretty after death.

He kneels down, piling the necessary ingredients onto the corpse, laying his ring on the pile.

The wave of magic crashes down into him with a rough intensity, he feels little but the red burning into his eyelids like cigarette burns, of the pinching slap of the wild magic. On the ground, unlike last time, he barely even notices when he falls into a deep slumber, only that when he awakes he feels terribly empty. Cold, and alone, he pushes himself off of the floor.

Riddle moves to leave the scene of his crime, but his eyes stop on the angelic form of the man who tried to stop him. He looks like a sleeping beauty, with rose red lips, and poison green eyes, slumbering until the end of time. There is no prince that will save him now, just the cold embrace of a death that apparently ‘missed’ him last time. The green orbs unnerve him, so he bends over to close them in a mocking mirror of what the man did for his father. Without a second thought Riddle turns on his heel to leave the room. Only when he is back in the gaunt shack does he wonder.

_ Will he stay dead? _


	3. Hufflepuff's cup

A young man with burning red eyes stares a woman, they sit opposite on a beautiful 3 meter long table, both at the heads of opposite sides. His face is smiling and charming, the woman swoons. She has red hair in an elaborate poof, decorated with pretty green and blue lilies. Her face is delicate and aristocratic, face pale and lips red, decorated with a gentle smile and blush. She wears a soft blue dress, decorated like the aristocratic dresses of old. He wears dress robes, a green shirt decorated with a midnight black dress with emerald green trimmings. An idiot could see the chemistry. She sips on her tea, as the man admires her, pupils blown wide.

But that is all a web of falsity. He can see that her hair underneath is thin, wispy, and balding, but the wig she wears is atrocious, resembling a red version of Marie Antionette’s disgusting style. The dress is a gaudy mess, the shade of blue makes her look older than she already is. Her face is aristocratic, but in a way reminiscent of incestuous Hapsburgs,. Her face is pale with caked on powder so thick that the smell invades your nose even with the constant spells she cast. And her lips are so badly colored in a way that leaves them constantly wet. The man’s pupils are blown wide with lustful greed, eyes only for the locket around the woman’s throat, and the golden goblet that sits between them, though he hides it well. He sees her not as a beautiful love interest, but as a pervy, fat, disgusting old woman, stupid in her trusting of a charming young man.

The woman starts to choke, unlike the view of the delicate Victorian lady, she hacks and coughs rough and wet, each successive breath she takes sounds more like a sick kid’s sniffle than the last. The young man watches in fascination as she chokes, grinning a feral grin, sitting as she silently begs for help. He stares for the full five minutes of suffering she goes through before she finally keels over dead, spit leaking out of her still open mouth. His eyes burn as the emotions and thrill of murder rush through his body, grin widening into an inhuman spectacle.

The layer of false skin flakes in a way off the woman’s face, making the youth squirm in disgust, as the spell has dissipated with her death. It reveals a red blotchy face underneath the layer of falsity, something disgusting beneath the masks that she wears for society. The young man finds it ironic that he sees her use of the societal masks as absolutely disgusting, but uses them himself to hide his own ‘flaws’.

He shudders, staring at her with disgust in his eyes, wondering how he managed to flirt without retching up his lunch. He allows himself to make an exaggerated grimace, reveling in letting his mask fall as if rebelling against the force of society. He feels a sharp pang, a little voice in the back of his head is telling him that he is the only one forcing him to keep his mask on.

_ But that’s ridiculous _

And part of him also knows how unstable the horcruxes have made his emotions, but he has ignored and dismissed all sign of that, choosing instead to learn to improve his masks tenfold. But here he releases them, letting the manic insanity shine brighter than his eyes.

The young man stands up and walks over to the table, using his long beautiful fingers to snatch the golden goblet from the brown mahogany table, plucking it delicately and tucking it into a small pouch around his neck. He walks closer to the lady, plucking the locket from her neck as one would pluck unwanted tomatoes from a sauce, careful not to touch her skin. He holds the locket in deliberation, before slipping it into his neck. When worn it emits such an overwhelming feeling of right that he lets it be.

A wrinkly old house elf apparates in, then stares at the floor as she addresses her mistress, “Hokey be wondering if mistress wants any more tea?”

“ _ Obliviate _ ” The man mutters, causing the elf to stare right at him with blank eyes blurry, stunned. A string of light blue magic connects her forehead to his wand, a moving stream of light blue mixed with white, like a dripping tap. The man kneels down to her level, holding his wand as it lights up.

“You made a mistake, accidentally adding the rat poison to your mistresses drink instead of sugar. You fainted at the sight of her dead body.” The elf’s eyes go back to their normal pale blue state, and she starts to regain consciousness.

“ _ Dormio _ ” The man whispers, causing the elf to go limp and fall down. He stands up straight, hearing a faint creaking in the floor causes him to still.

“I was wondering when you would return” The red eyed man mutters, turning around to face the disappointed green eyed gaze. The sight of those eyes and that expression starts an uncontrollable grin on the young man’s face, more of a baring of teeth than a grin. The green eyed man shudders at the sight of it.

“Rid-” The shorter man starts, but is quickly cut off.

“I no longer tolerate to bear that.” he shudders in disgust, “fifty muggle’s name.” The green eyed man purses his lips in disgust, “If you wish to refer to me, refer to me as Marvolo.” He smiles preditorialy, with deranged glee that can be sensed with any cursory glance. He starts to laugh, so much that he can barely breathe and starts to cough violently, the mysterious man just watches sadly.

“The Horcruxes are destroying you Marvolo, you can barely hold your emotions in tact.” The man looks pleadingly into Marvolo’s intense gaze, but Marvolo seems even more strangely happy at his words. Marvolo stands up and inches closer to the mysterious man, but the man inches backwards.

“The Horcruxes do nothing to my sanity, I was insane the whole time. The reason I am soooo happy, is because I just proved myself right. You see, for some reason you only show up when I plan to make a horcrux. As studious as I am, mystery, I just tested it last week. You didn’t pop in to see Madame Cole die, I even waited around the corpse for a few hours to make sure.” Marvolo looks gleeful, but the man looks like is about to be sick, staring at Marvolo with a blank horror.

“You Killed Someone? To see if I would show up?” The man looks disgusted at himself for a reason Marvolo can not fathom, stilling and just looking blankly into space. But as the mysterious man ponders distracted, Marvolo steps forward, slightly closing the gap between them, but not enough that he would notice. As the man stares at nothing, Marvolo takes note of his form. The man is identical to the last time he saw him, except of course for his distressed nature. Marvolo recognizes some advanced form of the notice-me-not charm imbued to the dementor cloak that the man wears. Marvolo can barely hear him muttering, ‘I changed fate for the worse’ over and over again.

When the man stops, and looks back up to calmly gaze into red eyes, Marvolo continues, “Somehow you can note my intention to make a horcrux before I do. So I repeat, Who  _ are  _ you _?” _

“I am a man who thinks you can still change, be the leader the wizarding world needs, not the one it deserves.” He looks up pleadingly, and Marvolo just laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs while staring at the man’s face, each laugh smaller and less rough than the last, until he has gone silent, stunned by the tears.

Marvolo suddenly goes mournful and somber, “Why”, as his mood quickly jumps from manic happiness to a somber calm. The man just looks up at him with pity.

“Because even though you think you are evil, that you cannot possibly help, only hurt, that is not true. I know the whispers, that spoke of an incredibly intelligent young man, Tom Marvolo Riddle, that spoke of how great and amazing he is, how would have so much potential if only he had been born a pure-blood. You are not a pure-blood, but still have so much potential, why force the views that subjected you onto so many others. And, I believe you can be whole again if you try, you can reabsorb your Horcruxes as if you never had them, you just have to regret killing them.”

“But what if I never will regret the actions I took. You know me far too well, you knew that I was born under the influence of a love potion, didn’t you?” The mysterious man just solemnly nods at Marvolo, “You know what that means.”

“Because even If you can’t, I can see the slight remorse of your actions. The subconscious regret. And  _ that _ shows your humanity, even if you want to be pure evil. All humans can change Marvolo, and you are human.” The man watches as Marvolo takes another step forward, and he mirrors that. In a moment of realization Marvolo sees what bothered the man earlier, but the man continues, “And even so Marvolo, that’s not how a love potion conception works. You feel love in a different way than other people, you don’t loose the ability to feel guilt and regret.”

“I didn’t kill Madame Cole because of you, I would have killed her anyway.” he mutters to the floor, but in his peripheral vision sees the man slightly untense his shoulders.

All of the tenderness and softness of the mysterious man leaves him in a short moment, he turns strong and bold, “Marvolo,” Marvolo steps closer to him, “Please consider how the Horcruxes hurt you.” Marvolo steps so close they can hear each other's hearts beat, “Each one changes how you act, causes pain for years, makes your magic less strong. You can reabsorb them if you just regret.”

Marvolo gently holds the man’s face in his hands, turning it ever so slightly so the man looks directly into his eyes. He can’t help but relish in the warm soft feeling of the man’s face, “Are you here to stop me?” Marvolo asks, each word sweet but dripping with intention.

The man looks softly, “I’m not here to stop you, just to warn, ask, and beg. But, I won’t stop you.”

“What If I take over the world, bring it to my heel, burn every dirty muggle so they never hurt one of our kind again.” Even with the provoking, the man just looks up at him soulfully.

“Please Tom,” he tenses, “don’t be the monster Dumbledore thinks you are.” The man’s eyes may be green, but all Tom sees in the moment is red, it starts with the man’s eyes, but spreads to the whole world as he grips the mystery’s face so hard it bleeds.

In a wild rage of fury, Marvolo’s magic tears the man apart limb from limb. The man never screams, just seems to calmly accept his fate. This only makes Marvolo more mad, using wild magic to turn the man into a fine paste, by beating his corpse over and over the course of an hour.

When Marvolo finally regains his control, he banishes the human pulp, leaving no evidence of the man ever having been there in the first place.

_ Maybe this will finally kill the pest _


	4. The locket

The locket feels heavy on the young man’s chest, igniting a feeling in him of belonging and right. He sits on the bed in a muggle house, next to the corpse of it’s unfortunate owner. The man stands up from the bed, and throws one of the blankets over the peaceful corpse. The man then sits and waits , waits for the reappearance of a mystery.

He looks back at the faint outline of a corpse on the floor, he was intending to find the first muggle he could trap alone, but something made him reconsider. On the floor in front of him is a prevalent muggle serial killer, and next to him is a note addressing all the crimes the man gleamed from his mind. Something irked him about killing somebody innocent for no reason, but he is unsure of what.

The man just stays sitting and waited, soon a voice appeared from the doorway, “Did Slughorn tell you?” The mystery just stands there, looking the exact same as every visit.

The red eyed man looks up, “I need to know more details. ” He noted how in this angle and lighting the mysterious man looks like some sort of divine or devious messenger. He looks inhuman, his body and hair fading into the dark and unlit background of the rest of the house, his face being cast unusual shadows from the light of his unnerving green eyes.

“Each Horcrux is not equal, each takes away half. The diary holds twice as much of your soul than the ring, the ring holds twice as much as you.” Each word the mysterious man says gets quieter, until the last word is barely a whisper, but strong enough to send shivers down the man’s spine.

“I don’t care.” He spits out, scowling at something unknown.

“Then I am deeply sorry.” The mysterious man crosses the room faster than it seems his steps would allow, he sits on the bed next to the other.

“Why?” The taller man feels slight unease at the body nest to him, no heat comes from him, only a faint aura of suffocating cold. The man suddenly has an urge to touch, just to see if he’s as cold as he appears, or perhaps that’s simply what he tells himself.

“Why do you change your name?” The snake of Britain doesn’t answer right away, but spends his time noticing the man in front of him. He feels this fixture of his emotions, of his Horcruxes, has gotten far less human than the last time he saw the other. As before the man was reminiscent of a frustrated savior, this version of him is oddly similar to a sad and despairful god, shamed by the human in front of him. The snake prefers this version, he never much liked humans anyways.

“I go by Slytherin, Marvolo is the name of a pathetic excuse for a wizard, a pathetic excuse for a descendant of Slytherin.” Slytherin can hear a small sigh next to him, so he fixes his eyes on the secret of the world.

The stranger just holds his eyes on an abject far far away, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” he says soft and sweet.

Slytherin lets out a short chuckle at the reference, and something hidden, but turns to fixate on the man’s glowing eyes “I am more a rose than you are a human, mysterious savior.”

The man dressed in the cloak of a Dementor flashes Slytherin the most depressing and broken smile anything could possible have, but fading faster than a heartbeat. His face turns hopeful, “Then you are the strongest rose that ever could.”

The conversation turns to strangely comfortable silence, before Slytherin states in the most factual manner he can muster, “I am no rose.”

“I would argue against, a rose is a fitting metaphor for you, Slytherin. Beautiful but too dangerous to get close.” The cloaked man conjures a perfect rose out of the air, plucking it from the embrace of magic before it falls to the mortal plane. He holds it not with caution, but grabs the rose in a strong fist, blood pouring down his forearm.

“Are you calling me beautiful?” Without a moment of hesitation Slytherin taps the rose, causing the thorns to feel as soft as silk, and the wounds to heal. 

The mysterious man stares directly into the great big red eyes, “Would you disagree?”, Slytherin is tempted to use legillimancy but refuses his impulse, valuing the trust of this being over the possible information gain.

“No, in fact, I am as beautiful as you.” The man blushes very faintly, but as the colour of the rose it stands out prominently on the near translucent skin of his face, Slytherin places a hand on that blush, nearly jerking away when he feels that the blush is in fact colder than the rest of his skin. The man just sits there, not even breathing as Slytherin notices, and no pulse as well.

Slytherin runs his hand from the man’s cheek, to his chin, resting his thumb on the man’s bottom lip. The man’s hand finds its way into Slytherin’s left, clutching it delicately but possessively. Slytherin moves his head slowly to place his forehead on the other man’s, close enough to feel the puffs of air on each other's skin.

“I killed him with you in mind,” the hand in his clenches, but he continues, “I was going to kill the first person I could, but.”

“But what?” The small puff of air from those words washes over Slytherin like cold sea water, causing goosebumps across his cheek.

“But I couldn’t. So I killed a muggle serial killer right before his next kill, I left a note detailing his crimes behind though.” Slytherin could suddenly feel the very surface of a giant estatic ball of magic thrumming under the strange man’s fingertips. The ball encompasses him in a feeling of breathlessness, a feeling of butterflies, a strong desire to get closer. The magic is like a cat in playfulness, batting out at and around Slytherin’s form, this magic is feeling, this magic is emotion, this magic is and all that should be life. It feels like a song beating to the tune of his soul, a dancing heart, a brush of velvet, the smell of roses and all that is the strange man in front of him. The magic is addictive, pulling Slytherin more than iron is pulled with a magnet, more than the pull of an accio, or the hand of an imperius.

The man suddenly notices his magic seeping through barriers, reeling it in so fast it leaves Slytherin with a horrible feeling of overwhelming loss and loneliness. The man turns bright red, and mumbles, “‘m sorry.”, but before he has finished his sentence Slytherin has latched onto his lip, exploring his mouth with an eager and skillful tongue. Slytherin keeps chasing the feeling of that magic, the effect bursting into his mind over and over again during the course of the rough kiss. To him it feels overwhelmingly right, his mind simultaneously humming in satisfaction and screaming for more, More, MORE! 

But the kiss lasts for such a short time before the mysterious man pushes him away softly but firmly by the shoulders, a vibrant blush covering his face.

“Slytherin, It is not your time to embrace death.” The man looks hurt, but deeply sad at the same time. He looks like he wants to kiss Slytherin, and run away.

Slytherin’s words emit in a sort of angered calm that strikes fear but prevents anger in return “Who are you then? Are you death?”, but that tone shifts dramatically at the last word, turning into a sort of disdainful growl at the prospect of his greatest fear. 

The man simply smiles, saying “No Slytherin, I am simply a human who thinks the world of you,” before being blown away by an unknown wind as if he was dust. All that is left in the spot he used to occupy is a rose covered in blood as red as it’s petals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be afraid to leave reviews and suggestions!


	5. The Diadem

A red eyed man pierces his thumb on a ritual knife, using the blood to add the finishing runes on the walls. He stands, a man like a demon, tall and fake. His teeth are sharp, his face starting to develop scales, his eyes glowing red. His human beauty has devolved into the face one would expect to tempt them to sin, the face of Lucifer, of a vengeful god.

The room is small and dark, covered in runes of all shapes, sizes, and cultures. In the center of the room is a man imprisoned in the strongest of magical ropes, whimpering in a foreign language, begging for his life. Blood from the ceiling drips onto the man, who tries to shy away to no avail. The devil just watches in vindictive pleasure, something within him humming wrong, something begging him to stop, he will go on.

He aims his wand at the helpless man, who just struggles and sobs. With a muttered word the room erupts in green light, fading to show the lifeless body of the poor man. With the fading of the light the demonic man loses the vindictive pleasure, just feeling empty and wrong. With little hesitation he waves his wand to hides the blood runes all around himself, but the nick on his thumb just keeps bleeding.

“Who are you?” A soft voice erupts, from the corner of the room farthest from the demon like man. The bright green eyes of the newcomer show hurt, but this emotion makes the eyes glow more, lighting most of the room in a faint green glow.

The snake demon chuckles darkly, “That’s just about what I was going to ask you.”, the green eyed one narrows his eyes in distrust.

The silence goes on for minutes, pressuring the demon like one to say anything to break it. The other man just stands there, emitting a presence unlike any other. He stands, not standing hovering slightly above the floor, with the cloak of a Dementor. Green eyes light up the room, ordaining his face next to the lightning bolt scar that seems to sparkly with real lightning, creating a small crackling noise.

“I am the dark lord, any other title is an insult.” The man suddenly looks near tears, dimming and dispersing the glow through watery eyes.

“You were doing so good, I almost thought” The man is so brokenly soft, a tone that haunts like the sound of a disappointed ghost, of a sad mother.

“You almost thought what?” The dark lord interrupts the soft words with no more effort than one puts in to changing emotions, his anger just washing him away like a drop of blood to the sea.

“That you” The man tries to continue, but the demonic one just sees red in those green eyes. The anger speaks for him, overwhelming him, making him feel as if his own will is so small.

“Fixed me! Made me light? Made me kind?” At each word the other shutters, but that information is naught to the mind of pure anger.

“That you had mercy.” The man doesn’t bother to speak until the dark lord makes it clear he won’t either, in a tone like the notes of a mystic flute he whispers.

“Who says I don’t” He growls out, a tone that would make even his death eaters squirm, but the man continues deathly calm, simply gesturing to the man on the floor, tear tracks still evident on his gaunt face.

“I am above such pitiful emotions, mercy is just a coward’s anger.”

“No you aren’t, you can feel, so much it makes you hurt and wish you never could. You lash out at mercy because you feed on anger, but mercy is no form of anger twisted or no. Mercy is the language of love in the face of hardship, of being told an eye for an eye, and refusing to take the eye. Of seeing the blood on your arms, and healing the wounds of the inflicter. Of taking the power that abused you, and using it to heal the others. Mercy is the language of forgiveness when you have no reason to. Mercy is equal and opposite to revenge. Mercy is living and let live. Mercy is love, and gentleness.”

“Mercy doesn’t make sense, why heal your abusers wounds just for them to hurt you back? Why let someone go just for them to lock you up?”

“Does it have to make sense? Does any part of humans make sense?”

“WE are not human.” Glowing eyes look into glowing eyes, one full of frustration and the other full of love.

“No, in many ways we are not, but in others we are the most human of them all.” Silence cloaks the two like a blanket, smothering the frustration of the red, and insulating the love of the green to both of them. The dark lord looks into the green eyes, trying to transfer his anger but just getting transferred love instead. 

The red eyes fixate on the green one’s blood red lips, remembering a fond moment of their times past. He looks directly into the pits of green, muttering “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?” He uses his hands to hold the other’s, pressing their four hands together in a shared prayer stance.

Green eyes dance with playfulness, but one that masks empty cold pits underneath “Ay, Pilgrim, lips they must use in prayer.”

“ O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.” The man looks down at their shared hands, looking up with a strange sadness.

Eyebrows that ordain green eyes scrunch together, and the lighting scar gains activity, “Though dear pilgrim, one must not embrace death without feeling the cold burn of the afterlife.” The man separates their hands and steps away. Without their shared embrace the silence blankets them once more, but is broken far sooner to match.

“Why do you tell me not to embrace death, when you said I must all those years ago?” The green eyed man looks at the ground, and the corpse with a sense of guilt and regret.

“Because life is to be lived as long as given, not to be wasted. To truly live one must accept death, but not court it.”

“I never want death, I fly from it. Someday I will be Vol-de-mort, but my horcruxes are incomplete, I have not taken off from the ground.” The dark lord’s tone takes on a pleading nature, while the green eyed man just looks at him with an unreadable look.

“You did not want death, though tried to court it. That is what I warn you of.”

“Who are you?” The dark lord looks at the strangeness of the man’s look, one of a sort of destroyed saint. The eyes glow, the scar sizzles, the cloaks billow, his feet don’t reach the ground, and on the back of his left hand is a small note, reading ‘I must not tell lies.’

“A man who failed, who came too late. Who saw the truth but believed the masks.” Something in the dark lord seizes with an unknown fear and paranoia, anxiety attacking at his every sense, it takes all of his effort to spit out four little words.

“Will you leave me?”

“Yes. But one day I will return.” With that dark promise the lord’s anxiety turns to a cold determination, one he has not felt since the discovery of a soul splitting magic.

“I won’t let you leave.” With a wave of the dark lord’s wand the blood runes spring back into view, causing a look of horror deep into those green eyes.

“You can’t stop me.” In a fraction of a second the world erupts in a white light.

_ A faint white light blurs my vision, Tom is looking at a small snake about the length of my forearm. The ground is wet and muddy but he doesn’t care.  _

_ “Look Tommy is talking to a snake!” A group of older girls are gathering in a group and gossiping, the oldest is about 15, but the youngest only 10, Tom is unsure of his age, but guesses about 5. _

_ “Get Mrs. Cole!” Screams the youngest, who darts to the building. _

_ :No! Stop. Don’t hurt me!: Tom screams in parseltongue, but can’t tell he speaks in the snake tongue. The older girls left behind just glare at him. _

_ “Look Mary, the freak is HISSING at us.” Mary walks over to me, pushing Tom to the ground while he hisses for them to stop. The snake bites at Mary’s wrist where she holds down his arm. Mary slams the snake to the ground while screeching, until the snake is just a splatter of blood on the ground. _

_ “See what Mary did to your snake?” The girl asks, standing over Tom, “That’s what we’ll do to you.” The girl raises her foot over Tom’s face, bringing it down harshly. _

The memory ends, fading from the pain of a memory to the pain of the reality. The dark lord lays down in intense pain, each breath feeling like a puncture wound to his lungs. His head swirls horribly, like a headache decided to fight a battle with a lion in the temples of his head. Spots dance through his vision, his arms are tingly as if they fell asleep, but each tingle feels like prickles, leaving blood to run down the arms of the dark lord. His body feels horrible, like it is on fire, roasted on a stick, or dipped in acid. 

After hours, the man pushes himself up onto his forearms, looking around everything is destroyed. The room is shrapnel that has embedded itself into his body, The area around them is a crater, the corpse of his victim is more battered than he, and the mystery is gone.

The night has arrived, but the man doesn't care, he lays on the ground for hours, maybe days. In this pitiful state he doesn’t care about time, of Horcruxes, only of making the pain end in any way he can.

The pain doesn’t go away, haunting him like a knife left in a wound, stimulating pain again and again.

_ Like a nightmare _


	6. Green stands to red: Harry

A snake like man stands on the edge of a small house, a house with a secret broken by a traitor. The gate is small, but the man has not deigned to touch it yet, hovering outside. He stands there, embracing the experience of the pain from years past flowing through him like electricity.

Everything hurts

The man ignores this pain, reaching to open the small gate, but hears a stirring behind him. He turns with his wand at the ready, expecting the force of the Order of the Phoenix, running to protect when they notice the fidelus charm’s failure. But he turns around to see nobody, just a face from his distant past.

The man just stands there, darkness obscuring his face to leave only his bright glowing green eyes, a view too much like the last time he saw him for his peace of mind, the snake like man backs away slightly. Red lips lit sickly green barely move when speaking, but echo hauntingly, “Who are you?”

“I am Voldemort” The man turns around, displaying himself in a powerful stance with robes billowing with his magical energy. The scaled white face is illuminated by an incredibly faint glow of red eyes. He stands proud in front of the stranger, but the stranger just looks back sadly.

“One can never truly fly from death, death would force you to fly for eternity” The man waves his hand, summoning a small white bird with glowing red eyes, it squeaks, moving to fly around Voldemort’s head.

Voldemort glares, barking out “I know.”. The bird circles closer, so the man just blasts it away, to it’s indignation and loud disapproval.

“Can you fly for eternity?” Green eyes follow the small bird, which has begun circling higher and higher above Voldemort’s head to avoid him further.

“Why are you here? I am not going to create any Horcrux.” The man holds up his hands to show that they’re free of any objects, of any materials. The man in front of him just raises an eyebrow. After a short while the male snaps his fingers, creating a crack that sounds like the crunching of fresh bones, pain,

“This night will have unexpected” The man screws his face up into a grimace, focusing his eyes upwards, “consequences.”, he enunciates every syllable slowly, and as soon as the last sound leaves his mouth the white bird plummets to the floor right in front of Voldemort. Voldemort watches the bird, noting a small hole in it’s left wing, writhing horribly in what he can assume to be pain. The scars of the strangers last visit give an unhelpful pulse.

“You just want me to spare a baby’s life.” Voldemort spits this out, a growl between a roar and a hiss. He puts out his foot, resting it softly on the head of the bird, before grinding it to the ground. The crunch is near identical to the sound of the stranger’s snap, the pain flares again.

“I will not try to convince you more,” the man steps back, but Voldemort steps forward, he continues calm in almost a morbid way, “but heed my words.”

Voldemort steps back, crossing his arms and scowling at the eternal teenager standing before him, “You must know the prophecy” he hisses, holding the ‘c’ of prophecy longer than the length of a breath.

“I do.” The young divine messenger says with a short certainty.

“A boy is propheciezed to defeat me, I must kill him before he kills me. Why else would there be the fidelius charm on this little house?”

The boy’s eyes have gone a warning cold, “Prophecies are self fulfilling, Voldemort.” he mutters out, like somebody greeting a prisoner on death row, or a hit man right before a strike.

“Prophecies are the words of Fate, and as you said, Fate always wins in the end.”

“But prophecies can be changed, prophecies are not absolute. Prophecies are just one of many futures, shown to the chosen few by Fate.” The man raises his hand, and behind him the snake eyes of Voldemort spot the small white bird flying back up from the death, to sit on the shoulder of the man.

Voldemort stares into the eyes of the bird that mimic his own. “Yes, they can be changed, that is why I will kill the boy, stop the prophecy.”, when he gestures to the house the bird flutters over to Voldemort, resting on his right hand

“Wait to attack, learn the prophecy, know your enemy.” The man says this in a three beat tone, but something in the snake like eyes snaps, breaks, tears.

“Why would you?,” Voldemort chuckled darkly, “the Bastion of mercy,`` he gestures to the displeased other, “help  _ ME _ kill a child?” The laugh continues quietly.

“The World works in mysterious ways Voldemort, you must know this.”

“And that I do.” The red man says confidently, stating it as one would state their name to one they hope to impress. An age enters those usually sad eyes, as one would expect the eyes of a tired -oh so tired- god would look. Voldemort has a gut feeling that he caused the age in those eyes, but knows it has little reason or logic, items that he usually bases his life on.

“But not enough, that is your fatal flaw.” The bird drops dead, Voldemort half expects it to reawaken ,but he just ends up staring at the corpse of a small bird for minutes on end. The silence cloaks them as Voldemort calms, fascinated with the somewhat macabre metaphor laying on the ground right before his feet. The small beady red eyes glaze over, and Voldemort can’t understand why he doesn’t, why he can’t look away,.Green eyes watch red stare at red.

A questioning voice breaks the silence, breaking Voldemort’s eyes away from the bird so fast he feels idiotic, a feeling that burns, “It’s been a long time, twenty years, am I wrong? I thought you meant to make it to seven horcruxes, but you have stopped at five.”

“I had hoped to never again see you.” He spits out, something adding to the burn of his chest and throat.

Voldemort almost thinks he sees those green eyes water, but knows it a lie deep down in his heart, or perhaps that lie is as much an illusion as it claims the tears are. “Why? Do you hate me talking that much?”

“You nearly killed me,” Voldemort shouts, voice cracking into its former youthful nature before returning to a high pitched hiss, “ you could kill me, If I go on perhaps you would kill me.”

“But I did not kill you, I used magic to escape the bonds you put one me. I did not even prevent you from making a Horcrux.”

“But you do have the power to kill me”

“Dumbledore does, a traitor does, any random kid with a knowledge of horcruxes and ability to cast avada does. Do you hide from them?”

“I can’t hide from them.”

“Why not, are they going to search for you if you run away?”

“No,”

“Then why run from me?”   
  


“I’m doing what you wanted, I’m not making any more Horcruxes, why does it matter to you? Why wouldn’t you be happy about this.” Red eyes glow with unrepressed rage, and at this the same red eyes catch a small almost imperceptible flinch. And with that the rage is gone as quickly as it had came.

A facial expression, one that resonates a small plea of, ‘I miss you’, mouthed in the darkness so subtle that Voldemort doesn’t know whether or not to believe the message he saw with his own two ruby eyes, slitted like a snake.

A clock in the distance strikes 11:50, marking the final moments of the fateful day of all hallows eve, the day where death and life intermix together. “I am going to do this now, will you stop me?”

“No, It is too late, I cannot interfere more than I already.” The man stares directly into Voldemort’s eyes, “In the end Fate always wins, perhaps no matter what I do this will happen, perhaps you will or would never listen to me...”

Voldemort looks over at the gate, thrusting it open with a burst of magic to rival the incident many, many years ago. He looks back, to see the stranger watching his every move from the shadows, leaving green eyes staring hauntingly from far away. Flowers die with each step the man takes, curling in on themselves while turning nightmare black, the only one that survives is a small bright Lily, standing alone in a field of death.

Voldemort stands at the door, waiting as the stranger catches up to him, freezing when his body is engulfed in the familiar but overwhelming cold.

“You don’t have to do this Voldemort” The voice that accompanies the divine stranger whisper, “ heed my warning, leave.” Voldemort looks back to see haunting emerald orbs staring back at him from less than a meter away. The rest of the body fades into the night, and the glow on that green spell fade, the body fades into the background of a dark stormy night. Even without the glow Voldemort can swear he can almost see the green glint from the light of a new moon.

“I do, unknown one.”

The door slides open with a simple charm, displaying the panicked faces of the ones who have thrice defied him. The stupider one tells the other to run to their progeny, the one he’s after. The male is quickly subdued with a crucio, then a spell that lights up the room with the eyes of the messenger, his supposed savior.

Voldemort takes a quick glance at the corpse before ascending up the stairs to the small cries heard above, but he barely makes it to the first step before feeling the coldness subside. Voldemort looks back to see the cloaked one stare at the corpse, before kneeling down to close its eyes. Soon the man turns back to follow Voldemort, his dark form like a hole cut out of his senses, too dark to see texture, like a hole in the world so close. The man floats up the stairs, feet never touching the ground of the mortal realm, as if the realm knows he isn’t to be there and pushes him out.

The unlikely pair enter the room that contains a screaming woman and her baby, the woman pleads for her life, but the baby just sits, calm.

The woman pleads for mercy thrice.

A green light erupts in the room, fading to three.

In the house, the third corpse falls down, leaving one standing.

Voldemort hesitates with his wand, staring into green eyes that seem far too familiar to be on a baby right in front of him, especially this baby… The mysterious man moves, drawing the red eyes as he closes the green ones ordaining the young flower. The man turns from her, walking within centimeters of the scaled one.

A small hauntingly harmonic voice interrupts him from his actions, bringing him to his thoughts “These violent delights have violent ends.”

Voldemort turns from one pair of green eyes to the other, “I will not bend to your mercy laden requests, mysterious one. Who are you?”

“I am a man far from home but so close as well. A man who wanders but can never truly leave the one place he wants to. I am a man feared so much myself that I do as well.”

Voldemort just looks away from the human dementor, staring at the small babe. He aims his wand with intention at the child, muttering the worst of those curses some are so unlikely to forgive.

When the light of the room fades one final time, it leaves a pair of eyes. A pair of bright glowing green eyes.


	7. Nagini

A porcelain man of fog skin stands alone, in a country of fog, in a town of fog, in a house of foggy knowledge, in a room of foggy memories. A corpse lays in the same position as it had earlier. eyes open in the same kind of fear. The only thing that has seemingly changed is the man, disfigured into the appearance of the creature he so desired, expecting a man of death and life. The man is much the same as the one before, the intelligence that would have grown is now split among many other pieces, has committed the same crime, in the same room, and is planning the same act.

The cadaver lies prone on the floor, a large python writhing over it as would so many small maggots. The only sound in the room is the slight slythering of the snake, rustling the old rotting robes of the woman formerly known as Bertha Jorkins.

The man bends down near the corpse, closing the wide open deranged dead eyes, when he rises there is the slight cold aura behind him that he has come to notice so much. Without turning around the man with blood red eyes addresses the ones he knows to be green.

“You were right, mystery, but how?” The demonic one cannot help that his speech comes out little more than hisses, the ‘s’ like sounds stretch out to half the time spent speaking even though they were much less. The man turns around, noting how the man’s sleeves are pulled up, revealing a strange triangle marking with a circle inscribed and a line bisecting. The demon like man wonders what the strange symbol means, and why it is being revealed to him now. 

The man ignores the other’s question, asking his own instead, “Who are you?”. If red eyes were more observant perhaps they would have noticed the thinly veiled anger lurking deep in giant green pits. An anger like wild snakes, a good view from afar but will bite you if you get close. But the red eyed man had always loved snakes, a strange obsession that dated back to the earliest of hours, the earliest of days. If asked the ruby eyed man would claim that it ran in his blood, that he was the man who ruled the snakes. But people scoff, not anymore.

“Voldemort.”

The mystery visibly deflates, his shoulders drooping as he lets out an overly faked sigh, “So you still believe you can avoid death forever?” he quips, a mischief mixed with a serious frustration.

“Yes, the unfortunate destruction of my body has proved that to me more than anything.” The man tenses, flinching slightly, cheek spasming. Magic pours out of him like stream does from a kettle, vibrating and quaking with anger, trying to escape its current bonds like a pet cat. The man wraps his arms around himself like how a child would comfort themselves, breathing in deeply before looking back up with a morbid sort of calm. Though no more magic leaves his small lithe form the rest still lingers in the air, haunting the demon with a sense of tension and paranoia.

“You are like the heroes of old, Voldemort.” The man says this in a way as a oracle would if they prophesied death, or a siren singing to one who desires suicide most of all.

“I am quite godly, immortality is the godliest trait of them all.” Voldemort boasts, at this point only running off of pride and defensive confidence. For some strange reason the magic thrums in approval, or perhaps it just feels unbearably happilky smug.

“Yes, immortality would make you inhuman, but that is not what I meant.” The man just stares at the other as if he is expecting something, or a badly hidden glare. Voldemort can’t shake off how stunningly familiar those two glowing green spheres are.

Suddenly the magic around him is suffocating, pressing down with all of the remnants of anger and expectations, accompanied by a sensation as if slimy potatoes were slid down his back. “Then what did you mean, are you complimenting my skill in battle, or perhaps my” He grimaces, growling out the sentence slightly, “halfblood nature?”

“Hubris is your greatest flaw. Your path much mimics Bellerephon if I say so myself.” The cloaked one glances deep into nothingness, “Some would say all you have left is your hubris.”

Voldemort pointedly refuses to acknowledge the last comment, igniting a fire in his eyes “Bellerephon was a pitiful demigod who only acquired the skill of being an equestrian. He saw his pathetic skills as something worthy of divinity, so he was struck down. I, to the contrary, will not meet such a pitiful end. Are you telling me that a god will prevent my immortality.”

“Myth mimics the real world much more than anyone would think. Simple children’s tales can be the  **bridge** across the river of humanity to unknown power.” The eternal youth emphasizes the word bridge, his voice turning deep and slow as he draws the words out on his tongue.

“And I will cross that bridge.”

“And how will you impress death, dear Voldemort? By running and hiding?” With any other person those words would have sounded mocking, teasing. But with the stranger in front of him the words only echo of a strange fascination, like one would have about cannibalistic pet lizards.

“By showing death power, by eluding death so well that he must recognize me.” The other man snorts, causing Voldemort to have a previously buried urge to raise his eyebrows at the teen for disrespecting him. Though he cannot bring himself to care of the disrespect.

“You could have been great Voldemort, but you are clouded with hubris, plagued by the fatal fear.”

“I am great, I will lead the wizarding world. And you always tell me that, what has changed my mystery man?”

“No.” He mutters softly, looking into big red pits, “You have stuck yourself in a prophecy that will spell your end, you cannot escape it now. You do not know the full prophecy, what you were doomed to.” He breathes out, looking frazzled and quite angry, “Fate always wins in the end, even if she has to rip you apart piece by shattering piece to make that happen.”

“I will find it.” Voldemort smiles, confidence bleeding through his tone. Like this the man almost resembles himself in his prime, but the voice is high, involuntarily dragging out ‘s’ sounds, shortening sharp sounds.

“I am sure you will.” The man says in an icy tone, the magic in the room reacts with him, pressing into Voldemort’s skin with a feeling so cold that it is hot.

“What angers you so, mystery?”

“I have failed, I thought I could succeed.” He breathes in, looking at Voldemort with eyes that are little more than seamless black pits with the cold aura reaching everywhere instead of just an inch above the skin, “I came too late, I cannot save you now Voldemort.”. If the red eyed man has ever thought dementors were born he would see the strange humanoid in front of him as one. The black pits make the cheeks look gaunt, like a living version of the undead dementor. The cold aura matches exactly, leaving a shift feeling that does not accompany the soul sucking feeling. It leaves a strange unease, he keeps anticipating dementors that never arrive.

“How do you know for sure? I can change! I trust what you say now, your words are fact. You can see the future, but how?”

“You are a hole in time Voldemort, a splinter, a puncture, a break. You are an earthquake with reverberations throughout the rest of this silly trampoline we call our own reality. You are everything, but nothing at the same time. You are the most important mortal to our delicate reality. Frankly your future is bleak for such a bright flame.”

“But how do you know my future!”

The deep and creepy black pits subside, fading back to a far more human like green than usual, the man looks down, muttering a few short words, “I don’t. I know my past.”

“Who are you?”

“I am the most human of them all, locked away from the rest in a cage of broken glass. A candle” The man stands up, walking over to the dining table still set with the place mats of the fatal day almost fifty years prior, placing a small candle down. The candle burns with a bright green flame, the room goes dark leaving the candle as the only light. “,snuffed out by the pure force of a dark room.”

“WHO are you? Who are you really?” Voldemort shouts at the vague green silhouette of the human Dementor in front of him, but nothing seems to happen.

“I have laid out all of the clues you will need” suddenly the room goes pitch dark leaving no lights to speak of, the man breathing out in an almost exasperated way, “,perhaps you can tell me who I am when we next meet?”he asks this hopefully, but at the same time conveying how much he expects Voldemort to know exactly who he is next time.

“I don’t plan on anymore horcruxes! We won’t meet again.” Voldemort shouts at a mysterious man who drags confusion into everything he touches, into a random direction in this cold dark room.

Suddenly a pair of big glowing green irises appear under a few centimeters away from his face, “You haven’t stopped flying yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking around! I had a bit of writers block, but I'll try to get out the next chapter within a week!


	8. Fate Wins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of Tom, Riddle, Marvolo, Slytherin, the dark lord, Voldemort.
> 
> Or is it the end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kinds really OOC, but I wanted to get out the chapter eventually and thought beating myself up over the characters would just mean I could never get this out at all, so I hope this is a fitting end to the story!

A forest darkened by the lack of light, barred from view and care. Creatures lurk beneath every branch, under feet and over heads. A small clearing is uncleared by the trees of human bodies, secrets so deep they burn the ground into a fine ash.

A serpentine stands in the center, a position of power, along with a young boy.

“Harry Potter,” He whispers, calm. The man takes up and aims a pale brown wand covered in large bumps, decorated profusely in a strange runic language “,The Boy Who Lived.” comes out in a strange anger laden hiss, growing more snakelike as the words go on.

A green light embodying the soul of destruction wraps it’s green tendrils around the boy, pulling at his soul. Something tugs at him, something he forgot, something so same but different. The body goes limp, and the serpentine man almost feels a regret.

His followers -servants really- don’t know why he simply stops all that he is doing, to stare in the face of the dead boy. He feels fascinated in a strange way, he does not care about the boy but his eyes wander back to him no matter how hard he tries. Something that keeps him rooted in silence, screaming at him to watch the boy.

Something tears at his mind, something feels like it is threatening to burst out but simply can’t. Forgetting something, then knowing you forgot even though the thought still eludes you. Though the man knows himself, looking deep through the drudges of his mind for answers. When he looks deep down the only thing he can solidify is that on a subconscious level he thinks this is fake. That something here is wrong, something here is a pretend, something here …. 

But he realizes his paranoia is swirling around the boy as if he is the eye of a cyclone. A tiny gut feeling in a midst of anger is saying the boy is alive, not dead. He stares at the limp form, waiting for even a twitch, staring and waiting for a mistake. Though logically he knows that the longer he looks at it the more likely he will have a false alarm, perceiving movement where there is none.

He chooses Narcissa to check his paranoia, because she has the most to lose. The woman bends down, standing back up with a confirmation his paranoia was unjust

He didn’t really know what he wanted less, for him to be proven wrong or Potter to be alive.

He chooses Hagrid to carry the corpse, content that any even slight movement from the boy would -hypothetically- cause the man to go into hysterics.

They arrive in the courtyard, meeting the gaze of thousands of angered eyes but all of them felt empty … for some reason. Tears fell, but they looked bland like a washed out portrait. Faces stared at him from all angles, faces covered in numerous cuts, faces pained from grief. Dying had followed him here too, bodies twitched on the ground in pain while people tried consoling them, it never worked.

Everybody here could see thestrals now.

Hagrid places the boy down gently, like a parent putting their child to sleep, even bothering to pillow his head so that it doesn’t hit the cold marble. Scorch marks litter every surface, but the sleeping beauty is untouched, resting out the danger through his eternal sleep.

Everything goes well, people without their figurehead leader bow to his demands, follow his lead. The battle has torn through their minds, leaving them so exhausted that they simply let him. People wallow in self piy and defeat, choosing to believe a stupid prophecy over the view of their own eyes, telling them that if Harry Potter is dead, then the cause of the light side is too.

Everything goes well, the school that was the broken man’s first home is under his heel. The school that holds the soul of the country, of the rebellions has fallen, bending the will to its rightful heir. Teachers will be replaced, and every little noticed details that a young heir noticed will be cleansed. Hogwarts must be perfect, he must take it forcefully to start but now that he has it he can take care of his home, his true blood claim.

Everything goes well, the chaos of the battle has stopped, all ears listening to his words. The peace has settled, none questioning his final rule. The servants of the cause stand behind him, some giddy with excitement while others are controlled.

Everything goes so well, until it doesn't. Paranoia is verified as a young boy rises from the ground, ordained now with jewel like glowing green eyes. Chaos rises from the grave along with him, the battle regaining traction. The battle roars, and the man can feel the home slip from his fingers like oil.

Nagini screams from alongside him, as her head is cut off from her body. The man screams in anguish, in pain, a fury directing him to violently search for the criminal, the murderer of his precious. He can see the taunting face, a strange perversion between faces he has fought before, but cannot reach him.

The boy killed twice has approached me, waiting for me to acknowledge before we duel. His face is kind, but in a way that shows as deeply mocking way. He almost flaunts his morality, his chivalry, his ideals with this gesture, that Slytherinness shocks me at the pure amount of powerplay this emits. His face is one not seen since a pair of great yellow eyes killed a small girl, as if the boy is flaunting how he knows they are the same.

But the older does not want to die, shooting the curse in hopes that a muggle phrase holds some truth.

A blast of red interlocks with the snake of green twining around each other while they fight as equals. Both of their magics stall, lighting the world with a bright light, the battles around them stop as everybody watches. The green snake magic twists forward, inching its way towards equally green orbs completely devoid of fear.

The green meets the boy just almost, when within a hair’s distance everything switches. Slitted ruby orbs watch as the ruby spell blasts its way towards him with a brute force and light. Red inches its way towards him angrily, wrapping around his green to distinguish it before it can even form. Red inches ever closer … 

But it doesn't stop, wrapping around his form., tearing the wand from a slack grip. Everything erupts in green, though green eyes flash through the light. It all fades.

It all fades into the exact same pair of glowing green ethereal orbs.

“It’s you.” Green eyes stare back at them, jeweled onto a divine appearance. The lightning bolt scar so famous crackles on his forehead, he has otherworldly pale skin and midnight black hair.

“Yes it is me, do you know what I am.” He mutters, a river of calm after a horrible battle, tranquility in the face of chaos. They are both in a small room, with wood panels on the wall, and a single door. The ground is covered in a persian rug, and they both sit on black leather couches across from each other.

The demon takes little deliberation, spitting out the name like fire on his tongue. “You are Harry Potter, the master of death.” The man who sits in front of him looks little like the more human Harry Potter in many ways , but is undoubtedly him. This one looks like the angelic version of the other, many features exaggerated, and ears slightly pointed like an elf.

The man brushes off the harsh tone, maintaining his own calm one. “Yes I am, but who are you?” Harry stares directly into his eyes, and almost subconsciously the man looks down at his hands. He doesn’t know what he expects, but finds the same scaly white hands that his living body wore.

“Voldemort.” He mutters out, catching a quick look at his still serpentine face on the mirror at the other side of the room. His demonic features produce a strong parody between Harry’s angelic ones, like how the wizarding word portrayed the two.

“But are You really?” He asks, putting a long stress on the ‘you’ as he asks in a playful like tone, almost a surprise or disbelief. Voldemort can’t understand his meaning for a moment, but gets a slight hint that the being is referring to his name.

“Am I dead?” he asks, assuming that he must be, he just was hit by a green light after all, and now his name is being ridiculed by the master of death another time.

“No, but you do not live. In the basest sense you are in purgatory, where souls are sent until they embrace death, want to die. Then they enter the afterlife, where they lose their fears eternal. But those souls are truly separated from the living.” The man stops to stroke a very familiar stone, sighing heavily, “Your soul is broken, you cannot atone like other souls. You cannot enter purgatory, you are at the moment so little soul that you would fade away. So I have altered your fate..”

“What happens to me?” He asks, the only emotion he has left holds heavy on his heart, weighing him down with a deep sense of dread. Along his mind races all of the pleas Harry made for his reabsorption of the horcruxes. He must be facing the worst.

“Well, you will have to go through it all again. Nothing in the real world will change. But you will not know that. Your memories will be wiped, but your soul stays the same, until you can live through a life without making any horcruxes.”

“What about your visits, will they change?”

“No, not one bit. Each bit you accept death, each little crumb of fear eroded, you will consider my advice more and more. Until one day, you listen to them all.”

“When will I be forced to start again?” He asks, paranoia clouding his usually logical mind, a flight or fight response where either option just ends badly. Harry looks at him with sad eyes, and he can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t move.

“Voldemort, you are already fading away from this realm.” He looks down at his hands, to see then turn to dust. Everything hurts as he can feel every little piece being ripped from him before it disappears into the void. His mind is the last to go, trying to hold onto a rapidly deteriorating brain, until he is half into the mind of a baby. He can’t help as everything he ever knows falls into a milky white bliss.

\-----

Everything of the room fades back into view, identical memories flashed into his mind like a horribly intrusion of legilimens. He can remember double, the only new information is the last visit from the master of death, but all of the memories fight for attention. His mind feels suddenly as it has aged through two lives, even as both are identical. “I feel so old.” he mutters, startling a slight chuckle from Harry, which he glares at because of the horrible felling his head is being pushed through.

“Nonsense, you’re only 150 or so.” He looks strangely at the Potter boy. But the man only says with a fond smile, and with eyes that look older than his, painfully old.

Voldemort growls, causing Harry to jump, “I lived my life twice. Exactly, down to every single detail. This plan of your won’t work.” He almost yells, echoing off of the tiny walls of this room.

“The plan isn’t for sudden knowledge you were barred access to, to give you repenting in one retry.” Harry says, sternly and as if his jaw was clenched. When the tension in the room slightly dissipates he looks back up, “It takes time, wears down your soul.”

“This won’t work.” Voldemort screams, launching himself at the other in a terrifyingly animalistic way when magic does not aid him. The force of the jump pushes them both to the floor, with Voldemort’s hands on either side of Harry’s head.

Green eyes flicker to the arms on either side that give an appearance of pinning, but green meets red, voice melting softly“So you haven’t changed in this run through, don’t worry. IT takes time.” They keep in a tense stare, they both look into each other's eyes as if it holds the secrets of the universe, but a thought flashes across Voldemort’s mind almost obtrusively,

_ What is IT? _

The horrible ripping appears again, making everything worse, even the infamous temper, he hisses, throwing himself backwards as he curls in on himself protectively. A tense voice manages few delicate words, “I am fading again already, aren’t I?”

“Yes.”

\--

Voldemort comes back to being with a third copy of memories shoved back into his mind. When the pain wears off he looks around, noting the walls are now covered in drawings. He looks around to see Harry drawing in the corner of the room, hand covered in the residue of muggle pencils, so he decides to walk up behind him, “Your plan isn’t working, I enjoy living.” he mutters, trying to calm the situation.

“Hmm. But this isn’t the point. It is for you to regret splitting your soul.” He mutters, not even looking up from the paper as he talks, and picks out a yellow pencil to color. Voldemort notes that the snake in the drawing is the basilisk.

“Why would I even.” he mutters, nothing about the emptiness devoid of emotions holds even a smidgen of regret for anything he has done, only logically noting that it was a bad idea to anger the master of death.

Harry almost immediately snaps his head up to look at the other directly in his big red eyes, “What separates you from Tom Riddle?”

The question comes too fast to even think, “I -uh-” he snaps out before the sudden tearing at his skin starts, stinging and biting, he instinctively puts his hand over the fading parts to stop the feeling of bleeding to feel the burn of a cut.

At the very last moment of his consciousness at this plane, a small voice calls out in a song like manner, “Tell me when you return.”

\--

The fourth version of identical memories are shoved into his mind, swirling all of the view of himself and his past. Voldemort sees quadruple in his past, but not in any of his pasts does this room look like it does now. Everything is dark, the only light is the faint glow emanating from a room covered in drawings.

A small voice interrupts the deafening quiet, a voice like a person who has not talked in years, dry and raspy. “So you are my master’s little plaything.” it whispers, from a corner of the room that is darker than the rest.

Voldemort just sits, mouth dry with a strange wind in the room, as the light comes on his eyes can make out a giant hunched figure looming. He nods, unable to form words enough to justify talking to this strange beast.

_ Death _

The figure gets closer, giant hunched figure melting into the smaller form, as he takes on a strange perversion of Harry’s form, something that makes Voldemort’s throat clench. The figure has giant black pits for eyes, endless pits instead of any eye like formation, it looks liquid. It melts out of existence to reappear on the arm of my chair, perching like a strange bird. 

The figure looks up into the nearest drawing, one of an ethereal deer, muttering softly. “I told my master that you would fail, should I be smug?” He turns around, neck seemingly snapping as it turns at least 260 degrees, to look directly into my eyes, “Or just disappointed in him.” he sighs loudly and exaggerated, “He is human after all.”. Death catches the strange look from Voldemort, his expression melting from the disappointment to a painful emptiness, “What? I try to emote, or maybe I do. The little immortal likes to project emotions onto me, maybe it rubs off?” Voldemort pointedly refuses to acknowledge the most recent comment.

“I told him I would fail as well.” He croaks out, throat too dry to say anything remotely eloquent to this being of his greatest fear. The thing smiles, revealing a mouth without teeth, covered in bleeding pus covered gums. Something in his gut twists at the comment death made, but he can’t tell with the dulled emotions.

Death stares, keeping still while looking directly into his forehead, suddenly exaggeratedly gasping, “You should be dead, what an anomaly your soul is!” he exclaims with all the excitement of a small child, melting off the chair arm entirely to slither and hover impossibly close, a dark finger nears to Voldemort’s forehead, “I wonder why he fought to keep you alive, he certainly doesn’t like you. Maybe.” Death retracts before he inches closer, nose nearly touching Voldemorts, “Oh, you are of peverell blood! What a sneaky man my master is!” he chuckles, but the chuckle sounds like the cracking of malnourished sheep bones.

“The peverells were the ones who inherited the hallows,” Voldemort croaks out, burying his skeletal white face in the back of the chair to gain any distance. The shadowed one leans in closer as the other tries to flee, but stays completely and utterly silent. They stay like that for a few minutes, before a hissed voice requests confirmation with a quick, “yes?”

“And they are the only ones who can properly use them.”

“And the hallows are how one inherits the powers?” Voldemort whispers, forming a smile on the face of death. The smile is malicious, too knowing at the face of doubt.

“Yes, quite right little peverell.” He exclaims, face all fake giddy smiles that inspire the fear of chaotic madmen, continuing in the same joyous tone,“But, no matter your superficial blood, I would just kill you. No use keeping YOU around, it’s not like you even provide any company.”

A cold voice interrupts from across the room, “Leave him alone Death.” it mutters, and when death rises the fae is revealed to be harry’s.

“If you say so.” Death chides, brushing past Harry on his way out with a smile plastered on his face. Right before he leaves the room death throws a murderous smile back at Voldemort.

Harry sighed deeply, looking around the room with a tired appearance, “Look I’m sorry about Mortis, he isn’t very friendly.”

Silence weighs heavy on the pair, saturating the air and every crevice of every item in the room, as Harry waits for a response he sits down opposite of Voldemort. Harry gives up after many moments, his shoulders tense up as he always does before speaking and the tiredness reforms unshielded in his eyes.

“Do you know now?”

“I don’t.” Voldemort mutters, an inkling of carefully trained tenseness entering the tone, almost as a warning about warnings.

“Maybe it will take some time.” he whispers, running a hand through his hair with a deep sigh, curling into the fabric of the chair like it was a child’s security blanket. Harry looks childlike, a ruffled bedhead, flexible youthful pose, a timeless face, red rimmed eyes, and the dementor like robes give him a cuddly ratty kid look.

“I’ve been alive for almost three hundred years, time has been taken.” he growls, eyes brightening with anger, a snakelike hiss following the words as would an aftertaste. Rage bubbles at the perceived apathy, the tiredness that he was given, the lack of care in these crucial moments.

Hadrian twitches, or flinches, or startles, quietly whispering in a low voice, “You haven’t accepted death, you haven’t thunk.”, avoiding red eyes as he does, as though a GOD would show fear.

“Why would I be different from Tom Riddle?”

“You are less than a percent of your original soul, Voldemort.” instead of a soft assurance and reason that was intended, a frustrated snap comes out. Harry tiredly tries to apologize, but is interrupted before the first burst of air can leave his lips.

“I don’t understand why being less of me would make me less myself.” Is yelled, a sound that echoes off the strangely living walls, a sound that rubs away a few vital drops of regret.

“If you can’t understand that now, I don’t think you ever would.” Its stated like a fact, a cold reason, an uninterested statement, like Harry doesn’t care. 

“I don’t understand” He meets the tired gaze, voice raising unintentionally, “why I’m being lectured by a boy” a small reaction, something that nearly passes the gaze and only recognizes as something happens. Voldemort doesn't know he is yelling now or even what he is saying, “who should have been thrown into the veil alongside the blood traitor!”

Something in the being twitches, unfurling from the curled position he occupied earlier into something waif like. He walks with soft steps away, Harry leaves the room with the soft creak of a wooden door that might not have been on the wall at all. Voldemort just angrily scoffs.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there before he fades away.

\--

Voldemort spends next few lives just sitting in the room alone, the door sitting there like a haunting specter, the drawings on the wall look at him with painful eyes, the chair still sitting in the same spot like a monolith of explosive rage.

\--

A man wakes up, stitched together like a strange motley of evil and tame, but more the latter than the former. A salt and pepper crop of black hair embroiders his visual character like a crown would to a king, and the tassels of the robes would be the strange red eyes. 

A calm but unexpected look crosses his eyes, forcing his legs into standing, a mirror of his thoughts appearing before him as he wishes. Something tugs at his lips with the visual, something bittersweet.

He calls himself Voldemort, a man who wants to fly from death. In a way he tore his soul from the frigid hands of the underworld to stitch it back to himself as he is a broken toy, but in another he forced himself into the hands of the one who courts death.

In a short moment he throws open the door to his supposed doom, but only to find Harry playing chess with a young dead woman. They smile and laugh at each other, something in Voldemort dark and deep claws at him.

The other man takes a quick look at him before making a deep double take, a giant grin breaking out on the small face. Harry talks to the woman, she leaves with a small smirk, before running up to the pair of big red eyes to throw him into a giant hug.

A gasp of a reason unknown echoes out of his chest, manifesting in a practically sob, “I did it, I didn’t make Nagini a horcrux.”

“That's wonderful, I told you it would work.” Harry chimes, digging his face into Voldemort’s, squeezing his arms around the other with the strength and vigor of a strange leech.

“Does It mean I will die,” He starts out cheerful, but the tone drops to a dismal soft murmur, then turns far more somber, “I don’t want to die.”

“You won’t die Voldemort, not until you want to, until you accept it. There is nothing to worry about” The cheerful and assuring uppity beat fades in a very terrifying and slowly quick drop.

“What is it.”

“You're fading again.”

\--

Voldemort blinks to readjust his eyes, red slits squinting as he notices that he is sitting at a tea table decorated with fine porcelain, finger foods of sugary delicateness litter the cloth. Across from him is a strange view of Harry in real robes, but the seriousness is spiced up with childlike glee, “So have you figured it out?” he chimes, a soft smile makes him look mother-like.

“You’re back.” the snakelike man says, with a surprised tilt.

“Yes,” he smiles sadly, “have you figured out what is different?”, he quietly asks, looking deeply into snake eyes.

“I-h” he stops, and tries to remove the boastful tone and prideful chest, “I had more ambition, more cunning, more masks, more emotions, and less sadism.”

“But what do they all have in common?” He asks, the tea table fades to have Harry take the place right next to Voldemort, both far more subdued than a few moments ago.

“I don’t know.” he sighs, looking down at the hands that are ripped away from the plane of existence he desperately wants to stay on. 

“Goodbye.”

\--

“You were a horcrux, weren't you.” Voldemort mutters before anything else leaves his mouth, the darkness fading to a pale figure with burning green eyes and a tearful smile.

“Yes I was, what made it obvious?” He whispers, the figures in the background of the drawings crowding as close to the pages as they can get, Voldemort watches as copies of the pair staring at them from paper dulled glowing eyes.

“I didn’t kill you this time, the war went, differently. ” Curious eyes follow the hand that unconsciously gestures as he talks, “You never spoke Parseltongue,” a small chuckle escapes the other’s lips, “We never shared dreams,” Voldemort pauses, causing Harry to raise his eyebrows, “When you died you never stood back up.”

Something flashes across his face, settling for a nostalgic look and a muttered, “How’d I end up?”

“You were happy If I remember correctly, Draco Malfoy complained about James sending prank items to you.” Harry looks down, something tugging on his lips.

“Thank you.” He mumbles with clarity, as Voldemort fades to the sight of his tear stained face,

\--

“I never expected that life gets boring after awhile.”

“One of the many horrors of humanity, to realize a fear of death, then a fear of life.”

“I feel very, human.”

“Are you just saying that because I want to hear that?”

“I don’t know”

“Thank you.”

‘For what?”

“For admitting that.”

\--

A man curls up in a chair, hissing softly at the soft and sibilant sounds coming from the drawings, especially the one in his small delicate hands. Red eyes fade back into the view of green.

“I missed you” He continues hissing, the sounds coming out like that unintentionally in a soft manner, the snake on the page wraps around the shoulders of the red eyed drawing.

“I’m sorry, that I am not Tom. But I am more, I never made the locket.” Red eyes look back from a face decorated with meticulously groomed black hair, thick on his head with a small salt and pepper look to it.

“Then who are you?” The shorter asks, a pure curiosity coating the words that could so easily be tipped with aggression, or laced with frustration.

“I guess, that I am Slytherin.” He hisses, all of the snakes in all of the drawings tilt their heads and eyes to look at his use of snake’s words. Slytherin focuses on the drawing that had been in Harry’s careful hands, but had slipped to the floor.

“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” He quotes, pressing a serene red rose to the other’s hand before the red eyes had even noticed his presence.

“I am still not him, and that’s all that matters.” He grips the flower softly at first, but then clenches his fist on the spikes, that dig into his skin and bleed rose red.

“All that matters is that you’re trying” Harry whispers, draping a hand on top of the other’s fist until the rose’s thorns melt away. 

\--

“What is it like, living with the hallows.”

“It horrible, feels like each day you’re going insane, and the only reprieve is the sleep that I don’t even need anymore.”

“I think, I might start to understand what it’s like.”

“Well, I know you will if you listen to my rant about morality and humanity.”

“I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to live either. I lost track of my age.”

“Merlin knows I did too, must be past my ten thousands already. Jeez I’m old.”

“I think this was my first life I didn’t try criminal activity as the full time job. I just had some very shady politics.”

“I’m proud of you.”

\--

When red eyes blink open to the small and sturdy room he is alone. His hand ghosts over the intricate crayon drawings, he wonders if he’s dreaming, but only in here is it so horrifyingly quiet.

The door opens, and when green eyes meet red eyes a giant grin erupts on Harry’s face, “You’re so close.” he murmurs, crossing the room with the slight distance he tends to keep from the other even more apparent not, curling up on the armchair as he always does.

“Don’t you want to know who I am?” He hisses, spitting out the words unintentionally and feeling a light flare of guilt behind the irrationality.

Something curls like a spring in his gut as the silence prolongs, where he is standing right now he can’t see the green eyes, only the crayon colored yellow ones that greet his view.

“It doesn’t matter, It shouldn’t matter. I’m sorry.” Harry mutters, and the red eyed figure feels the spring clench at those words.

\--

“I did it Harry.” He gasps as the body is thrown from the mortal world, the words escaping him as his body is torn back together. He looks around the room, but meets yellow eyes before passing on to green.

“Did what?” Green eyes open and tilt, with doll like black eyebrows raising, but a playful smirk also adorns his lips. Red eyes don’t know which to believe.

“I stopped at one horcrux.” He finally mutters, choosing to take the route of trusting the question to not be sarcasm. A serene and wonderful smile that ruby eyes want to stare at forever.

_ Where did that thought come from? _

“What convinced you?” He asks, eyes darting to take in the true youthfulness of the man in front of him, watching the features that could almost be whole.

“You coming back to life.” A happy tilt decorates the voice that goes monotone at comfort and security, Harry raises his eyebrows at the strange action, one that Harry can see the thinly veiled lie from a hysterical man, “I went and became minister.”

“What’s wrong.” Harry mutters, walking over to the other chair -closer than he has gotten for awhile- and looking at him with concerned green eyes.

“I thought I’d be happy, but I think I just want it all to end.”

\--

“I did everything I ever wanted, I became defense against the dark arts teacher and minister.” Tom spits out, a strange mix of frustration and nostalgia tinging his words.

Harry chooses to ignore the mixed signals, voice calm and curious with a simple answer of, “What was that like?”

“I was your father’s favorite teacher, I met you when you were a little kid. Then you went on to become the head of the auror department.” Tom scans the room with fresh eyes, gaze landing on the big yellow eyes.

_ Why couldn’t those eyes have killed me the first time around? _

“I told you how much potential you have.”

“Had. I never made any horcruxes.” Harry cocks his head like a mechanical doll in confusion, before realization seeps in and he almost looks human again.

“You embraced death.”

“I’m so tired dear mystery, I don’t want to anymore. I want to die.” He grabs the hand that Harry always offers but Tom never takes, the larger hand enveloping the almost ethereal smaller hand.

“I know Tom,” a choked sob breaks through, “I know”, the hand falls from his grasp to lie on his shoulder, almost as cold as he feels.

“I’ve been alive for so long, so many tries, so many fails.” Tom mutters, slotting his hand into the grasp of Harry’s other, “I don’t want to have to think. How can you stand it?” he whispers, and opens his eyes to green eyes so very close.

“You can’t Tom, you live each moment in a strange perversion of life and death. Everything hurts, your mind is tired but you just can’t sleep. The days bleed into each other, they leave you trapped. In those times the only thing running through what used to be your brain is regrets. Everything you wish you hadn’t done.”

“And what is that for you?” Tom whispers,, watching the pain in those eyes and completely understanding.

“I-” He sharply inhales, eyes watering, “I have so many wishes, people I left behind, little regrets. Little moments spent just watching memories and screaming what I did wrong.” He has gone to full blown tears, “But It all culminated. I- I just wish I hadn’t been so stupid, I wish I never got those god forsaken deathly hallows. Tom, I just want to die, but I can’t. Even If I wanted to, nobody else fits the hallows anyway.” He angrily gestures at the table in front of them, but the hallows just stay there still and don’t do anything. Tom doesn’t know if they just appeared there or had been there the whole time.

“I do.” Tom mutters, watching as the green eyes widen in a sort of horror.

“Tom, you don’t have to, you have embraced death and now you can finally die.” he furiously mutters in a sort of stage whisper, some sort of hysteria seeping into the words.

Tom walks over to the table, sitting down on the floor in front of it with a reaching grasp. In a sudden shock a cold hand grabs onto his own, wrenching him away from the artifacts.

“But you can’t!” He hears shouted, he looks back to the tear ridden face of Harry, the grasp almost painful. Without meaning to Tom pulls them into an embrace, arms wrapped around each other with foreheads touching.

“You spent your time, the afterlife is waiting for you, don’t hide forever.” Harry whispers, holding onto him with a bone crushing grip, tears so soulful that they seep into his words. They embrace for an indiscriminate amount of time, holding each other dear, before Tom feels the aching premonition of the fading.

“You saved me from an eternity of torment.” He cups the other’s face, pulling him into a deep kiss. Tom suddenly cant think or feel, pulled into the ball of magic so deep that It feels like sunrise, but truly is the sunset. He tries to push back the tugging of death, kissing with a ferocity and hunger that draws a soft moan out of an ethereal throat. Harry’s fingers wrap around his hair, but his own stay wrapped around the other’s waist. Neither need to breathe, but pull back at the last moment anyways, Tom’s almost faded face look back at green eyes.

“Let me save you.” Harry tries to reach for him but the other is faster, Tom’s fingers wrapping around the three with a sense of finality, and suddenly the one who fades is Harry, leaving Tom alone.

alone 

  
  


so very alone

  
  
  


he looks around the room, eyes landing on the big yellow eyes

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


he got what he wanted, didn’t he?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


So why does it feel like so much of a failure?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this! I hope you liked it and could stand my OOC versions of these characters


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